make it make sense (you want clarity)
by Renoku
Summary: It's been six months since the Nogitsune, and Stiles feels like the pack may finally be… moving on. Then of course Sourwolf has to go get himself in trouble, and Stiles starts dreaming again, left to try and fight against some dark omens against him. Who ever said the road to recovery was easy? Rated T for language, violence, and Stiles' innuendoes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** Gonna try and keep this brief: This is my first Teen Wolf fic! It takes place after 3b, but before season 4. I was planning on making this a really long oneshot, but then I got a plot, and now it's like a monster and would not work as a single chapter, so… More chapters! (fantastic… i gotta write it all…)

Warnings for Canon Typical Violence and Language. Also for sexual innuendoes and general Stiles behavior. Eventual Sterek. Eventually. Aso, Kate Argent appears, but I try to make her as least sadistic as possible. OH AND CHARACTER DEATH LIKE I JUST FIGURED THAT OUT IN MY MIND THAT IS NOW PART OF THE PLOT. BUT DON'T WORRY IT'S NOT ANGSTY IT JUST HAPPENS. Sorry, it's nearly midnight, and that usually wouldn't be a big deal, but I've had a total of ten hours of sleep in the past week. I'm losing it.

Allison's characterization in this chapter sucks. Don't worry about it. Did I mention that Stiles sees dead people? Yeah, BAMF Stiles, Magic!Stiles, Alpha!Stiles (but still human), Possession, and the long road to recovery! Hope you enjoy!

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"_Make up your mind you want clarity. Take what you know and then make it make sense. Just face what you fear and soon it comes clear, your visions are just your defense."_

– **Make Up You Mind/Catch Me I'm Falling **–** Next To Normal**

*–_–*–_–*–_–*–_–*

When he opened his eyes, he couldn't see.

Panic flared up in his chest like a bomb, but he diffused it with a quick, practiced inhale of breath.

He could breathe – always a good sign. No matter how much his eyes strained, however, his vision met only solid blackness.

A shiver passed down his spine. A wicked chill seeped through the air, leaking past his skin and straight through to his bones. It swept through him in turn, and it left him alone and vulnerable in the open darkness. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck. The icy tracks bled down his skin, raising goosebumps along his flesh.

He released a shaking breath, the sound rustling in the dead silence like paper.

His hands – he could feel his hands. They hung at his sides, wrinkled and clammy. In a rush he gripped his arms. His fingers caught on the soft sleeves of a T-shirt, fisting the clothes desperately in his palms.

Another breath, hesitant and shallow, before the panic began to return.

It started as a buzz in his chest, numbing his heart and lungs as it spread through his body. His fingers went next, the shirt in his grip becoming fat and hard, and then the feeling travelled up his neck.

He floated on the clouds of his breath, before they began to rain. They came faster, building momentum and counting down to the explosion. The oxygen in his lungs struck tinder and set his stomach on fire.

He couldn't see. Even in this open emptiness, the darkness pressed in like a cage. He felt the bars wrapping around him, his breath becoming trapped, screaming loudly with a cry of ripping paper in his throat.

And then a single drop of water broke the loud silence.

His breath caught in shock, just enough to shut down his heart to a hushed throb. Unease curled in his chest, but it began to loosen its hold, and his face still stung with the numb burn left behind. As feeling trickled down his arms, he raised a hand to his cheek. It came away wet with tears on his fingertips. Cold reverberated down his spine, and another shiver passed through his body. He brushed his hand off on his chest, ignoring the returning pounding of his heart, and looked around himself in the darkness.

Another drop sounded out to his left. He whipped around, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the source. There – somewhere, it came again. The darkness pulsed with it, like a serene ripple in the silence.

He could feel the beat pass through his body, crumpling his papery breath, and he knew it would grow into a tidal wave.

His fingers twitched almost absently, and he weighed his options. There wasn't much of a debate before he went ahead and took a step.

The moment his foot touched the subliminal ground, the darkness broke apart. It burst beneath his foot, particles of shadow giving away to blinding light. He raised his arms to shield against the fluttering bullets, stumbling backwards. Everywhere his feet touched, the cage broke, and the already open air expanded in another blaze of dark feathers. The fragments of shade swirled around him like ashes, filling his mind with a rushing gale, howling in his ears. His vision flickered between sight and blindness, and he caught a glimpse of the dim world beyond the bars. The space spun in a vortex, ripping at his clothes and skin and hair, and he felt himself being torn away from the light to follow the ghosts into the void. Blood pounded in his ears, and finally, he let loose a scream.

The sound tore from his throat, and it broke the lock. With his voice echoing on the wind, the shadows were sucked away, bleeding off of the world around him like ink and leaving him standing in a world he could see.

Stiles blinked. His vision swam into focus, spots dancing in front of his eyes. The white light dimmed, coming down from its liberated high. When everything finally balanced, the sight softened his pounding head, but only sent his mind reeling back in confusion.

He stood in a school hallway, the one outside of Mr. Harris' classroom. Above him, the lights were off, the only source of awareness filtering through the small windows. The air felt strange around him, alive and breathing. It raised the hairs on his arms, and he hugged himself close. The dull warmth from his hands did little to stop the trembling nervousness he felt in his bones.

He let his eyes travel over the scene before him. The school looked deteriorated; cracks littered the glass windows on the classroom doors and crawled across the tiled floor. The paint chipped off of the lockers and the brick walls, exposing the dark grey beneath it all. From the ceiling the paper flats sagged, some torn through with dark stains.

Stiles' eyes fell on the gnarled bark of a branch, twisting out from between the metal struts above. It ended in roots, clawing at the air like a furious animal, frozen in their wooden form for as long as Stiles stared at them. At the sight, his heart stopped and he let his arms fall.

"Aw hell," he groaned. He scrubbed a hand across his face. "Not this shit again."

He shoved down the jump of panic in his chest. He figured at this point that he was dreaming, but at least this time it was so blatantly obvious that he knew it as a fact. The motion sensors were still up in his room – he complained about them constantly, but in truth the knowledge of their presence helped his sleep easier at night, conscious that his father would keep him safe.

At that thought, the familiar sharp edge of guilt dug into his ribs, but he shook his head, ignoring it.

It just didn't make sense. Six months had passed since what Stiles preferred to refer to as "the incident". No one brought it up anyway, but it was too much to even think about most days, let alone call it what it actually was. Remembering it tormented him; the demon in his mind, under his skin, driving him insane. He remembered the weight of the sword lodged in Scott's stomach, and how it had trembled with each breath his friend – his brother – took. He relished in the chaos of that moment, the power that had surged through his veins at the sight of pain. He remembered taking control of the Oni, the glory that had lit up his every nerve and set him on fire, and he remembered the sick, wonder satisfaction he'd felt when he'd killed –

Another drop of water echoed throughout the hallway, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.

His fingernails dug into his hair, scratching at his scalp. He hadn't even felt it when he'd started to hunch over, but now he faced the cracked tile beneath his feet, sweat sucking from his skin with anxiety coating his face.

He took a breath, then another. His entire body shuddered with the motion, but he felt it. He felt the air fill his lungs, felt it leave him again. His heart beat beneath his skin, thumping against his ribs, and his stomach churned with an uneasy nausea. He accepted the dull sickness with relief.

He felt human.

Stiles straightened up once he decided that his vision wasn't still blurry. The hallway remained dark, but he felt something pulling at him. It felt like a cord strung to his body, tugging once at his chest, then against at his shoulder. The sensation pulled again, pricking at every point on his skin, but not enough to latch on. Stiles eyes searched the dim hallway, as if he could maybe find the severed threads, but he saw nothing.

_Drip._ There it was.

For a split second, Stiles honestly debated whether or not this was the smartest decision. Of course, six months following demonic possession apparently did nothing to curb curiosity, so he did what came naturally.

He decided 'screw it' and started off down the hall.

His eyes continued to scan the building around him. The broken roots of the Nemeton climbed across everything, and he wondered how much of this dream world was the school, and what he would find outside it.

He prayed to god it wouldn't be anything too traumatizing.

But that was wishful thinking.

Stiles held his breath as he walked past Harris' – well, the dream version of Harris' – room. The door stood ajar, and a pale light filtered out into the hallway. He glanced inside, seeing the rows of lab stations and crystal beakers atop the tables.

His stomach rolled when he caught sight of a dark stain on the corner of Harris' desk. It glistened in the cold light of the room, wet and fresh. Stiles' eyes followed the trail of it as it dripped onto the floor and dragged across the ground. The crooked splatter continued into the hall, rugged and thick as it traced underneath his feet and scraped against the tile. It pooled outside the men's bathroom across him, before seeping under the door. A darkened handprint stained the rotting wood, dashed across its surface.

Stiles hurried on, grateful that the lights were off.

The water had stopped dripping for the moment, and the eerie silence was becoming louder than not.

So Stiles drowned it out the best way he knew how: with words.

"Alright," he began, his voice rough and tired, "We – _I_ am probably going insane. Again. And there is no 'we' here, because Isaac trapped the demon-fly in his magic jar of tree-flesh – That… that is a _great_ visual, thank you, Stiles." He shivered, and licked his lips before hugging his arms once again. "And then he decided to give it back to Kira's arguably crazy mother, leaving us with a rotting tree stump and…"

Nothing.

Stiles breathed out, glancing over his shoulder.

Hell lot of nothing that still plagued Stiles' dreams. His nightmares left him shaking in the middle of the night, clutching for air as he gasped awake, tangled in bed sheets and soaked down to the bone with sweat. Stiles hated the suffocating. He hated the lost sensation that kept him under. Dreams inside dreams inside convoluted spaces of blessed wakefulness – at least he'd stopped sleepwalking, and learned how to know the moment he awoke in his subconscious, the moment the Nogitsune was taken away.

Still, looking around at the hanging branches clawing the school apart, Stiles couldn't help the feeling of dread that filled his gut.

So he spoke again. "I told him just to bury it," he continued after a breath, "but nooo, Mister Golden-Locks-of-Love had to be all stubborn and logical–" and the rest of the pack had agreed with him anyway "–'No burying the evil bug under the Nemeton, Stiles. It'll just attract more messed up mammal-shifters and their freaky reptile cousins.'"

If he were really being honest though, Stiles had to agree. But being possessed by a chaos demon had blown his reasoning instincts to crap. His mind was like a broken labyrinth, crumbling into new patterns with every nightmare or stray dark thought. Even now, he wondered.

Stiles knew chaos. He knew the Nogitsune better than anyone, even before the possession. He breathed chaos. Every single moment of his life was spent rolling with the insane punches. How else did he keep himself from breaking down? Anyone else would have lost their minds the moment the word 'werewolf' was instated as part of reality instead of a simple story to scare farmers into keeping a closer eye on their sheep. Anyone else would have collapsed, the maze in their minds obliterated to ruins, twisted into spirals more intricate than Celtic knots in the face of hunters, kanima, kitsune, as they tried hard to keep everything black and white.

Just look at where Allison fell, turned against herself and confused right up until that final night in the snow.

Yeah, Stiles knew chaos. He'd reined it in, though, taken control of his messed up life and filtered through the shades of grey.

Then the Nogitsune had come and unleashed it all, throwing all his bindings into the void.

He was still working on chaining it all back up. He thought it would be easier the second, third, fourth time around. But no, it wasn't. I never got easier than that. He couldn't just breathe it away like a panic attack. No, it took a force a hell lot stronger than shallow air to capture all the missing pieces of his soul.

That's where he tried to draw the line in the sand. He tried to sort between the chaos that was stiles, and the insanity that was the demon. And sometimes, the logic made sense both ways.

Maybe the Nogitsune had still influenced Stiles into suggesting that he bury the capsule, so that it could regain power. Or maybe it had known that no one would believe in Stiles' judgment, and intended to be delivered to the doorstep of its original summons. There existed an infinity of maybes and possibilities, but if Stiles was truly honest with himself, none of them ever seemed like the right choice.

In the end he trusted the pack – his Pack. That's what they were now. No longer arguing because of power games and regretted actions, they were able to function as a group. Not that they didn't argue – Scott was clueless as a leader on the best of days, relying on Stiles and Derek to guide him – but with the period of unsettled peace, they at least were trying.

Somehow, out of all the chaos, they formed their own little base in the maze. They were more than just friends now. They were Pack, and to Stiles that meant a second chance at family, to forgive himself for all the lies and all the pain he'd given them all. He didn't intend to mess up again, not this time.

He didn't speak again until he reached the end of the hallway. A set of double doors stood closed in front of him, the metal handles stretched across the dark surfaces like a flare. Stiles glanced around once more, noting the cluster of roots just above him in the corner.

He shivered once more, before taking a breath and pushing the door open. The room beyond was automatically familiar, and yet Stiles felt tension creep up his spine. No way that this wasn't some sort of trick of his mind, not with how easy the dream seemed to be going.

So Stiles steeled himself, and continued to walk forward into the school cafeteria.

Moving into the open space was like leaping to an altitude leagues above the earth, and Stiles had to pause for a moment as a wave of dizziness washed over him. His ears didn't pop, but his headspace expanded as if filled with the helium from the Hindenburg itself, laughing him to a high of flammable awareness. If he took a breath, the oxygen in his lungs would ignite, so instead he blinked until the fuel drained away.

The ceiling seemed higher than in reality, the paper tiles arching high above him from the cinderblock pillars lining the walls. Unlike the decimated hallway Stiles had just left, the entire lunchroom was spotless.

More evidence that this was a dream, all sights of pooling bloodstains and clawing remnants of Tolkien-trees aside.

Then Stiles turned to face the tall windows that stretched to the ceiling, and he retracted his previous observation.

A forest of trees pressed up against the glass, as if surrounding the school as an army of vegetation. The tall pines were armed with sharp quills along their branches, and the smaller trees below them bare of their leaves, their twisted branched scratching at the windows.

And at the center of the towering arrangement, seemingly larger than the entire world around it, stood the Nemeton in all of its live, pre-stump glory. Its branches curved up into the air, the same familiar pattern that Stiles recognized from hundreds of Lydia's manic drawings. It glowed with an eerie energy, and Stiles could sense the desperate hunger radiating from its bark, even through the walls of the school building.

The Nemeton wanted blood, and human sacrifices weren't enough.

Its winding arms reached up into the night sky outside. The moon shone bright and full, fat and ripe for the taking as the branches curved around its silhouette like the bars of the deadliest cage, ready to lock the moment it found its key. Filtering through the dark rods, the great light from the moon suddenly flickered.

Stiles swallowed, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck. His breath shuddered in his throat and his hands shook.

The sound of a phone ringing scared the shit out of him as it echoed through the cafeteria.

"Holy crap!" he shouted, leaping a foot into the air. He clutched at his chest as his heart nearly gave out, reaching out with his free hand for a support of any kind.

The sound came from somewhere in the middle of the room. Quickly, Stiles made his way to the end of one of the long tables, seeing the light from the phone. When he reached it he blinked.

It was his cellphone.

And the caller ID shone with a grinning picture of a closed-eye Scott.

"Stiles!" Scott's voice exclaimed the moment he accepted the call. Relief was palpable through the line, as the boy continued to shout, "Thank god you picked up! Where are you?"

Stiles winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. He frowned down at the device, and by extension, Scott's yelling, before raising it back up to his ear.

Confused, he replied, "Um… I assume my bed? Dream-Scott?"

"Dream–?" Scott cut himself off, before rushing, "Stiles, I'm standing in your bedroom right now. The motion sensors went off and your dad called. Are you dreaming?"

Stiles pulled the phone away again, his heart pounding. "Y-Yeah," he breathed. "I am. How did you–?"

"Stiles, you're sleepwalking again."

No. No, no, no, no, no. No, he was not sleepwalking again. He hadn't sleepwalked in six months. _Six months_.

To be fair, in six months, he hadn't had a dream of the Nemeton either; let alone the whole goddamn thing.

"Shit," Stiles cursed, taking an involuntary step backwards. "Shit, shit, shit – no, this can't be happening. Scott, this can't be happening – not, not again. _Shit!_ Scott, I–" His breath caught in his throat, and he gave a wheezing gasp as he fell to his knees.

He hit the tile floor hard, hands coming up to clutch at his chest as the panic flared up fresh and new once again. It exploded this time, the entire zeppelin in his chest lighting up his paper in his lungs and striking tinder on the bomb. His very heart went numb, a ragged breath pumping dead blood through his body as tears sprung up in his vision.

His dream world went blurry, as the moon outside the window flickered black.

"Stiles!" Scott shouted, his voice dim through the phone, "Stiles, snap out of it! Stiles! Stiles, we'll find you, just snap out of it and calm down – Just – Stiles–"

The words may have been the angry growls of an animal for all they did to calm Stiles down. No, he kept his heart pounding beneath his chest, too fast to even feel as the panic flared up in every nerve ending of his mind and rendered him useless.

And then he heard a roar, and another voice broke through the cacophony of chaos.

"STILES!"

The feral scream of Derek's voice shook the school to its roots, and the glass windows shattered in a rain of crystal rage. As his name echoed throughout the room, Stiles' breath jolted back into his chest, and his body froze.

Scott had fallen silent, the phone lying on the tile next to him. The roar finally faded away, and the moon turned back on, the white light pouring through the empty frames.

"Derek?" Stiles whispered, barely audible to his own ears.

But Scott heard, and he immediately asked, "Derek? What about Derek?" He sounded defensive, guarded, and Stiles blinked in confusion down at the phone.

"You didn't hear…?"

"Hear what? Stiles? Do you know where Derek is?"

Stiles sat up, and scooped his phone back up to his ear. "What?" he asked, "What do you mean 'do I know where he is'? We saw him just at the last Pack meeting, didn't we? Last week?"

"Stiles–"

"Did something happen?" He narrowed his eyes, already anticipating the answer.

Scott was silent for a long moment, but Stiles could hear his breathing through the speaker. He stood up from the cafeteria ground, and looked towards the windows. Glass littered the tile ground, and the branches of the Nemeton looked bent out of place, allowing more moonlight to shine through to the room. Stiles turned his face up to it, still hearing the echo of Derek's roar in his mind.

"Isaac and Malia are searching the Preserve," Scott finally answered. "I sent Kira to pick up Danny, and they're going to look around the town."

Stiles groaned in annoyance. "Scott, you're not answering my question. What happened to Derek?"

"Lydia and I are going to look for Peter," Scott continued as if Stiles hadn't said anything. "He might be able to help."

"Scott, you asshole, I swear–" Stiles cut himself off. "Wait– is Lydia with you? Lydia!" he suddenly shouted, "Lydia! Where the hell is Derek?"

"Stiles," he heard Scott say.

"Lydia! I know you can hear me!"

"Stiles–"

"Scott," he heard Lydia's muffled voice over the phone. "Scott, give me the phone."

"But Lydia–"

"Scott," and Stiles could hear the biting tone through the dream, "Phone. Now." Scott must have complied, because next thing, Stiles heard Lydia, saccharine sweet, saying, "Hello, Stiles. Sweet dreams, I hope?"

"Lydia," Stiles bit back, irritated, "where is–"

"Derek?" Lydia finished. "I can't tell you that right now, Stiles."

Stiles gaped at his phone. He felt anger rushing to his face and had to resist the urge to chuck it across the room. Really, Lydia?

"What?" he snapped, bringing it back up to his ear. "What do you mean you can't tell me?"

"If I tell you, you'll overreact, which is the last thing we need right now."

"See, the thing about suspense is that it tends to make people overreact anyway," Stiles snapped.

He could hear Lydia metaphorically filing her nails on the other line. "Stiles, you're in a dream. Whether or not you actually do overreact, your mind will start to fill in the spaces for you. And you know what that does to your subconscious?"

Stiles sighed, dropping the phone from his ear once again. Yeah, he knew. What happened was that he got a bear trap biting into his ankle and glass shattering windows while the Nemeton watched over it all.

"Yeah, it all goes to hell," he finally relented back over to Lydia.

"Exactly," Lydia replied, as if the entire process should have been obvious. Which it probably was, but Stiles was asleep, so logic was out of the question anyway. "You are currently sleepwalking. Sleep talking, as well. If your subconscious is powerful enough to control you body motor and vocal functions in a relatively catatonic state, just imagine what it would do if aggravated even more."

A groan left his lips, and he wanted to fall to his ass. But glass was littering the floor, so probably not the smartest decision. Stiles valued his ass, even when asleep.

"Can you–" he stopped, licking his lips, before rephrasing, "How bad is it? Like on a relative 'eh, we can figure it out when I wake up' to 'oh shit, we just lost sourwolf' scale, how badly should I prepare myself?"

Lydia's sigh sounded very tired, almost disbelieving. "It's not an immediate death sort of thing. I'm not getting any whispers from other Banshee. Neither is Meredith. Don't worry your little dreaming soul over it, Stiles. Just focus on waking up."

The relief Stiles felt was more solid than he expected. Sure, Meredith may not have been the sanest woman – Banshee – in the world, but she was honest. And she had a better grip on her powers than Lydia, which was for sure. Not that Stiles didn't trust Lydia or her abilities, but a second opinion from a near stranger was oddly more comforting than a friend's reassurances in this situation.

"Okay," he breathed. "Waking up. Shouldn't be too hard, right?"

Suddenly, a drop of water echoed throughout the cafeteria. Stiles' head whipped around, searching the cafeteria for it.

Lydia hummed in approval. "Scott, drive," she said, muffled over the line as she turned away. She said to Stiles, "Just don't walk anywhere. If you can't wake up by the time we find your body, we'll pull you out of it."

But Stiles wasn't paying attention to Lydia's words at the moment, as another drop of water sounded. There – the doors at the other end of the cafeteria were open, the hallway beyond them dark.

"Lydia, I–" Stiles began. But then another sound snapped through the room, and his words caught in his throat.

A hollow twang of a bowstring vibrated through the room, rippling the dream like a gentle wave, only to be followed by high sound of metal sliding against leather.

"…I'll have to get back to you on that," he finished.

"Stiles? What – no, you need to stay where you are–"

"Yeah, you guys will find me. I've… gotta go."

"Stiles–" Lydia's furious voice cut off as Stiles' hung up. He silenced the phone and slipped it into his pocket, before facing the empty doorway across the room.

_Twang_.

Stiles took a deep breath, and started forward. His first step was punctuated by that scraping noise, as light as the wind, and yet as loud as thunder.

He hadn't heard that sound in six months. Not since that night when Allison drew that final silver arrow from her quiver.

With every step, the glass crunched beneath his feet, until he escaped the light pouring in from the moon. He walked away form the open windows, leaving the crooked tree behind him, and took the leap into the darkness.

It was weird, when he'd separated from the Nogitsune. He'd been able to see two worlds at once. At some points, his mind would switch his vision, and he'd see his friends fighting the Oni. The next moment, he'd be staring at Lydia as she struggled to pull his sickened body through the halls.

Only by coincidence was he able to witness Allison's death.

He hoped that was the reason, and that it wasn't just another trick of chaos that the Nogitsune had planted in his mind.

The hallway he emerged into was right outside the locker room. This part of the school looked as decimated as the last, only without the roots clawing their way down from the ceiling. He heard the water dripping from within the room.

Steeling himself, he entered.

Even his dream couldn't dispel the stench of teenage sweat that permeated the room. Stiles nearly gagged, if he wasn't already used to it from every moment that he spent in here while awake. The lockers seemed taller in his dream, though, forming a maze deeper into the darkness. Of course, the lights were off, making it all the more difficult. The only source of light was dim, flickering like a weak flame.

Stiles rounded the corner, and saw why.

He faced the sinks lined up against the wall, the molding mirrors all glowing a deep orange, reflecting the light of the melting candle sitting on the edge of the porcelain. The stout lantern dripped wax down its sides, melting into the sink. The candle wavered, throwing the figure before it into a dark silhouette.

A girl sat on the bench in front of the mirrors. She hunched over, staring at the large bow in her hands. Slowly, she reached behind her, drawing an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back, and notched it on the string. For a moment, her hands seemed to freeze, locking up, and the arrow clattered to the ground. Stiles followed it, to see a pile of loose arrows on the floor.

He returned his gaze up to the girl when she plucked the string of her bow. Her gaze seemed lost, completely gone into the middle distance.

Stiles took one look at her hair, how it curled over her shoulder, and the square set of her jaw.

"Allison," he said. It wasn't a question.

She looked up at the sound of her name. For a moment she looked confused, her brown eyes glowing in the dim firelight. Then she focused on Stiles, and her gaze narrowed. Still, she didn't say anything.

After a period of silence, Stiles frowned. "So," he began, wetting his lips, "Are you hear for some sort of significance? Dream symbolism? Omen of death?"

_Don't think about death_, he berated himself. Not while he was waiting for news about Derek.

But the word seemed to amuse dream-Allison. She tilted her head to the side, her mouth quirking just a little.

Even with the darkness around her, she seemed so alive. It made Stiles' heart skip a beat in his chest.

Just for this dream, he could believe.

But then she had to go and ruin it by opening her mouth.

"You're dying, Stiles."

Stiles opened his mouth, and then closed it, before gaping again. "I–" he choked out, "What?"

But dream-Allison only smiled again, and her body began to fade. It peeled back like the darkness from the beginning of his dream, folding like paper and dissipating like ink. Her details crumpled like sand as the wind blew her away. With the ghost of her smile, the locker room was empty.

"Death omen it is, then," Stiles grumbled to himself, stepping closer to the bench.

His foot knocked against an arrow shaft on the floor. He looked down at it, seeing the feathers bent at the end, black as tar. The silver arrowhead glinted in the candlelight.

He approached the sinks. One of the faucets was leaking, dripping the water that he'd heard from the beginning of his dream. He shut it off, and then glanced up into the mirror.

He looked a mess. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. Bags sagged beneath them, red and angry. He looked too much like the Nogitsune; too much like the void.

But as he stared into his eyes, he suddenly leapt back. A startled shout built in his throat, but before he could, he heard the notch of an arrow behind him.

Stiles tore his eyes away from his reflection – his _blazing blue_ eyes – to face Allison.

She stood in the spot he'd just vacated, arrow drawn up to aim at his head. Her gaze was calculating, her face white as a ghost in the candlelight.

"It's too late for you, Stiles," she murmured. Her voice sounded distant, not like the Allison he remembered. She sounded cold.

"Funny," Stiles bit back, his own voice wavering, "coming from the d-dead" – he cursed himself, choking on the word – "girl."

"You're too close to them. You're dying, Stiles."

In any other situation, Stiles would've rolled his eyes. "Yes, you've said that already."

"They'll hurt you. Like they hurt me."

At that, Stiles' spine went rigid. His nostrils flared, and he glowered at Allison. A sort of rage filled his heart, burning with a newfound courage.

"That's not true," he said through gritted teeth. "They didn't hurt you Allison. _I did_. If you're going to blame anyone, blame me. Scott tried to protect you. Hell, he's still wrecked about you. Scott would never have hurt you. None of them would have. You know that."

Allison didn't waver. Instead, a fire ignited in her eyes, and Stiles almost smiled if not for the cold fury he found in them. Her anger fought against the candlelight, brilliant and winning.

"They did hurt me," she bit, still holding the bow steady. "They kept secrets from me. Not just Scott, but my father, Derek, Aunt Kate. You know what they did to me. They're doing the same to you. You know they are."

Stiles throat tightened, and he remembered the conversation he'd just finished with Lydia and Scott. Quickly, he shook his head.

No, he wouldn't bend that easily.

"You sound just as paranoid as your grandfather," Stiles muttered. "Allison, what they did to you hurt you, yeah. But you moved _past_ that, remember? Sure, you went on a rage and tried to murder Erica and Boyd, and then you helped Gerard kidnap me, but you moved past that. The night you… died – that was you."

_I hope to god that that was you._

"And this," he continued, gesturing carefully at the arrowhead aimed at him. "This isn't you. This is dream-you."

Allison didn't reply. She stared at him for a long moment.

Finally, she lowered her weapon.

After another moment, she spoke. "Are you sure you're dreaming, Stiles?" she asked, looking down to replace her arrow on the string.

Stiles frowned. "Yes? I mean, I just look in the mirror, and _my eyes are freaking blue_, like what's up with that?"

Allison smiled, and it looked so completely _Allison_ that Stiles almost wanted to cry.

"I'll give you a hint, Stiles," she said. "I'm dead, but this isn't your subconscious speaking to you. I'm not a memory either."

Stiles folded his arms. "That makes no sense," he replied. But then he stated, "Prove it."

Allison's smile turned sad. "I can't," is all she said. "But you _are_ dying, Stiles."

A shiver ran down his spine. "What does that mean?"

"I can't tell you that either. There are rules in the afterlife, apparently."

Stiles snorted. "Now you're starting to sound like Deaton."

Allison's teeth were white, even as a ghost – or dream, whatever she was.

"You look so alive," he said before he could stop himself.

Allison giggled, more like a startled laugh at the tip of her mouth. "Wow," she laughed, "What a compliment."

Stiles couldn't help the grin that stretched across his face in reply. "Death looks good on you. Ultimate beauty secret right there."

This time Allison's laugh was loud, completely open. She deadpanned, "Who knew?"

Stiles schooled his face into a serious expression. "But seriously," he diverted, trying to get back on track, "if I'm dying, then what am I supposed to do?"

"Talk to Deaton, like I said," Allison replied. "But also, there is always _that_ option." She nodded over at the mirror behind Stiles' shoulder.

He turned around, only to see the blazing blue eyes that stared back. It took a moment, for it to click.

It was as if cold water had been poured down his spine, how quickly the gentle candlelight became filled with tension. Every hair on his body stood on end, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

"No," he breathed. "No, that's not–"

He cut himself off with a choke, as his eyes began to change again. As he stared at his reflection, the blue faded, and his irises bled a deep, burning red.

His reflection changed, and he became the Alpha.

"No, Allison, you can't" – he whipped back around – "I can't be that. I can't become that, you know I–"

But Allison had raised her bow again, and aimed it at Stiles' head.

"It's time to wake up, Stiles," she said, before she let her arrow fly.

*–_–*–_–*–_–*–_–*

Stiles lurched up from the floor, gasping and sweaty, a blue light washed over him.

Immediately, he brought his fingers up to his face, and began to count.

"_Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten,_" he whispered to himself. Then again, "_Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten."_

He repeated the process, his voice shaking and threatening to break in his throat. His pajamas clung to his body uncomfortably, the sweat sticking to his skin. He felt cold. Where was he?

Satisfied, Stiles dropped his hands, and looked around.

He was in Derek's loft. The high cement ceiling hung above him, supported by the pillars that lined the wall. The large bay windows were behind him, letting the moonlight pour in in blue streams, and in the front, the heavy door was pushed open.

"Stiles?" he heard a voice call from above him.

He turned around from where he sat on the ground. Peter was descending the spiral staircase a look of heavy confusion on his face.

After a moment, Stiles found his voice. "How long have I been here?"

Peter reached the bottom of the steps, and quickly crossed the room to kneel down next to Stiles. "I don't know – I just woke up. Lydia called, I was just heading out to go look for… you."

"You didn't hear the door open when I sleepwalked in here?" Stiles asked, his tone becoming harsh.

Even when half asleep and freaked out, he had half a mind to hate Peter. The other half managed to keep the man tolerable, if only because he wasn't as insane this time around.

Peter scoffed in response. "That door's been open all week."

Stiles quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. He replied, "Derek always keeps that door shut."

The reaction was immediate. Peter's eyes widened, his nostrils flaring, and he leaned back. Stiles sat up straighter, the question already on his tongue.

"Peter, where's Derek? I need to talk to him."

It was true; after that dream, he needed to speak to the man. But Peter only opened his mouth, and no words came out.

"Ah…"

"Peter?" Stiles asked again. "Where is Derek?"

"Um… I don't–"

"Peter!" Lydia's voice suddenly echoed from outside the room.

The loud clacking of her heeled boots hitting concrete travelled down the hallway, followed closely behind by Scott's footsteps. The two came running into view, Lydia's hair all askew – yet still somehow completely perfect – and Scott's shirt completely wrinkled, stretched to the side to expose his collarbone. They both froze in the doorway when they saw Stiles.

The boy on the floor broke the silence. "Scott," he began. "Where is Derek? I need to speak to him."

Scott swallowed, his voice choking, "I–"

His gaze flickered to Lydia, who in turn delivered a strong glare in Peter's direction.

The older man took the hint, and cleared his throat. He took Stiles' by the shoulder, turning him to meet his gaze. The man's eyes were solemn, and Stiles knew the words before they even left his lips. They felt cold in his mind, like a numb fuse of panic. But hearing them aloud only set it on fire, and Stiles felt Peter's words crashing like a bomb.

"Derek is missing."

* * *

**A/N** Due to the fact that this is currently unbeta'd, please let me know of any typos that I may have missed or that were lost in the translation from Word.

Follow me on tumblr! My URL is renoku.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott and Lydia called the rest of the Pack while Peter dragged him off to the kitchen for first aid.

"Would you just. Hold. Still." Peter fought to keep Stiles on the barstool while he checked him over.

In turn, Stiles fought as hard as he could to get free. Everything was muted. The loft, Peter's words, the moonlight flooding through the windows – everything felt like a dream. It had to be a dream, because this reality somehow scared him more than the nightmare.

Peter's words echoed in his mind.

"_Derek is missing."_

With every repetition, an aftershock passed through his body, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. Again, he struggled against Peter. Again, Peter stopped him.

"Stiles!" the man exclaimed. "Sit down!"

"I'm fine!" he managed to bite out. "Let me go – where the hell is Derek? Let me go, asshole, I'm fine!"

Peter scoffed, "It's nice to see you're just as intolerable when you're injured as you are when you're fully functional."

"Shut up," Stiles said. "I told you, I'm fine."

Peter leveled Stiles with an unimpressed look, and pushed the boy back down onto the stool.

"You have multiple bruises, shallow cuts on the back of your legs, and your body temperature is cold enough that if you weren't shivering, I would be tempted to claim hypothermia. Now sit down, and let me take care of you."

Stiles hadn't noticed the itching pain on his legs until Peter had mentioned it. "No thanks, creep," Stiles replied, but he sat back. "Sorry, but I don't exactly trust you."

"While I may not be the… sanest person in the world," Peter voiced, pulling out a swab and bandages from the first aid kit he'd set on the counter, "I respect Pack. And like it or not, Stiles, you are Pack. For some reason or another."

"I didn't realize we were in the same Pack," Stiles muttered. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable tingling that travelled up his leg when Peter began to clean his wounds. Why couldn't it have been winter, when he could have worn longer pants?

"I was part of Derek's when he was Alpha," Peter explained, wiping the blood from Stiles' calves. "You were as well."

"What?" Stiles asked, surprised.

Stiles hadn't been part of Derek's Pack. Scott's, maybe, if only honorably. He wasn't a werewolf or anything similar. But in Derek's? Definitely not.

"That was my exact reaction when I realized it as well," Peter continued wryly. "But it's true. For some reason, only Derek knows, he accepted you into his Pack."

Stiles winced when Peter applied the antibiotic. It burned almost worse than the reminder that Derek wasn't there, except that it faded almost immediately. "He did it without telling me?"

"Pack isn't exactly rigid and forced, Stiles." Peter sounded like he was explaining the concept to a child, his voice slow as he continued, "It's fluid, like blood."

"That comparison sounds oddly specific," Stiles muttered.

Peter replied, "Blood of the covenant is thicker than water, Stiles. The Pack is our covenant. Derek considered you Pack, and somewhere, deep in your mind, you considered yourself part of it as well. That's all we need to make the bond. Tie the knot, if you would."

"Why does that sound dirty when you say it?"

"When Scott came into his right as Alpha," Peter continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "Derek bound himself to Scott. I followed suit, because it was a better alternative than falling to Omega."

Even so, he didn't sound particularly pleased about the arrangement. Stiles didn't exactly blame him; Scott was still new to the whole Alpha thing, even six months into it. But it was better than leaving Peter to his own devices.

"And we've been Packmates for how long?" Stiles asked. He sounded interested, but in his mind, he was still wrapping his mind around the fact that Derek had accepted him.

"Well, I realized you were part of Derek's Pack around the time you came to me asking about Paige." The way he said the name so casually made something twist inside Stiles' chest, but Peter carried on wrapping bandages around his legs, and said, "But the bond felt strong then, as if you'd been Pack for a while. Almost as strong as Scott's, actually. But really, that makes no sense, because Scott had accepted you as his own sort of Pack before I'd bitten him, and you didn't really meet Derek until… after…"

Peter trailed off, but his eyes widened, as if he'd come across an epiphany. His hands froze where they were at Stiles' calves.

"What? What is it?" Stiles asked from above him, looking down at the man.

Peter's head snapped up. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the one he got when he was deep in thought.

He blinked. "I don't know," he said simply, snapping the bandages with his claws and standing up. He packed up the first aid kit, still speaking. "Make sure to ice those bruises later, and wrap up in a blanket. I have no idea how you're this cold in the summer, of all times, but it probably has to do with your fugue state."

"Peter," Stiles cut in, and the man froze for a moment, "what do you not know? How long we've been Packmates? Or what?"

Peter simply shrugged, falling back into motion. "I don't know," he repeated, a smirk playing at his lips.

"_Peter_–"

"Oh look, company!" he said suddenly, closing the box with a light _snap!_

Stiles turned away, to see Danny and Kira enter the loft. They both were in their sleepwear, Danny looking slightly irritated, but Kira looking wide-awake. When she saw Scott, she smiled, and then her eyes fell on Stiles.

"Stiles!" she shouted, crossing the room in leaps. She crashed into him, throwing her arms around his shoulders. For a moment he swayed dangerously on the stool, but she kept them steady.

"Kira," he greeted, slightly suffocating in her embrace.

"Oh my god, we were so worried about you," she breathed in his ear, far louder than a whisper. "We had no idea – I thought the Nogitsune had–"

"Last I checked," a new voice broke in, "I gave that thing back to your parents. Six months ago."

Stiles peeked over Kira's shoulder, and couldn't help the self-satisfactory smirk that stretched across his face.

"There's Mister Golden-Locks-of-Love! I just had a dream thinking about you!"

Isaac frowned, crossing his arms irritably. He was wearing a scarf – not a practical one, a fancy one – and almost as well dressed as Lydia. What was it with those two and their constant fashion choices? It was… Stiles wanted to guess around five in the morning, but he wasn't sure. He fell asleep around three, he knew.

"Please tell me you weren't sleepwalking with me in your dirty thoughts," the kid groaned.

Honestly, as if it were anything less than an honor.

"No," Stiles replied. "I complained about how we should've buried the fly spawn of Hell under the Nemeton, but then you had to go and be _reasonable_ and give it away to Mrs. Yukimura."

"I still don't know what that all was about," Danny cut in, "but I'm pretty sure burying it under the tree that gave it its power wouldn't have helped."

"See, why can't you just be nice like Danny, Stiles?" Isaac added.

Obviously, neither of them appreciated being up at the ass-crack of dawn searching for a lanky human. But Stiles' head was pounding, his legs itched, and he didn't exactly feel like being there either.

He retorted, "Maybe I'd be nicer if I wasn't waking up from nightmares about the Nemeton, Wolf Wonder."

The following silence instantly made him regret his words, as Danny and Isaac both froze like deer in the headlights. Kira finally released Stiles, tension apparent in her stance. Her eyes gazed at him, calculating. In the background, Scott looked up from his phone, as did Lydia, both of their attentions focusing on him. He could feel Peter behind him as well, staring at Stiles as if another bomb had just been set.

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap. He hadn't meant to worry the Pack like this. They didn't need to know; it was just _one dream_.

"You're dreaming about the Nemeton again?" asked another person, probably the _last _person Stiles wanted to see, as she entered the loft.

"I – uh…" said Stiles, his voice cracking a little as he tried to think. "Well, that depends – it wasn't like it was the feature presentation, I mean, it was just – there…"

Malia stepped to the front of the group, caution lining her body. She looked every bit like the coyote that was part of her, gently moving Kira away as she stalked towards her prey. Stiles felt a nervous energy bubbling up in his chest, and began to ramble.

"I mean – I didn't see any traces of the Nogitsune. Nope. Possession free. I think – I mean, there wasn't any – well, there was a spirit, I think. I'm a little confused on that part still, cause I just woke up, but no – no demons, just–"

"Stiles," Malia interrupted, her voice quiet as she studied his face. "You're not possessed again, are you?"

Stiles really wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to run away, to get something done, all questions regarding his moral and mental sanity ignored.

He really did not want to talk to Malia right now.

"Well – I, um…" he trailed off, mouth hanging open dumbly. Eventually, he just shook his head, ever so slightly.

"I mean," Malia continued, looking over her shoulder for support, "I wasn't really there when you were having nightmares, but I remember the Nogitsune. I remember what it did to Oliver, before he knocked us both out. I heard–"

"No, Malia," Stiles interrupted. Malia wasn't there; she didn't know. Stiles swallowed, shaking his head again. "No, I'm not possessed."

The rest of the Pack, the part that _did_ know what the Nogitsune had done, gazed at him still, worried looks on their faces. He looked past Kira, Isaac, and Danny, to Scott. Their eyes met, and an understanding passed across his friend's face.

Lydia just watched him, a curious look on her face. She looked eerily similar to Peter, in that way, but then she raised her eyebrows, and Stiles remembered where he was.

"Guys," he started, "Where's Derek?"

The effect was immediate. Isaac and Danny both looked away, their eyes avoiding Stiles. Kira turned immediately to Scott, whose face became guilty, just as lost as when Stiles had asked him earlier. He felt Peter move from behind him, the man calling, "I'm going to go put this away," with the first aid kit rattling in his hand as he left.

Lydia's mouth curved up in a smirk, and her gaze flicked to Malia.

The were-coyote just looked confused, and Stiles wanted to bet that she didn't know anything either, but then she opened her mouth.

"No one told you?" she asked, giving a questioning look behind her at Scott. "Derek's missing. I thought you knew."

Stiles blinked. "No, I knew that much. Kind of obvious, at this point. I meant does anyone have any ideas where he might be?"

This only made Malia seem even more confused. She glanced back at the Pack, as did Stiles.

Scott was shaking his head in his definition of subtle, while Kira was suddenly tense, gaze flicking between Malia and Stiles. Lydia's smirk had fallen, but her eyes glittered knowingly at the were-coyote. She nodded, once.

"Lydia…" began Malia, "Lydia said he was somewhere in Mexico, right?"

The Pack all froze, even more than they were before. Considering the fact that they were all part predator, they looked every bit like startled prey.

Stiles was utterly confused, and his gaze fell on Lydia. The girl was the only one who looked just as calm as before, even with the slight frown on her face. She raised her chin, as if in challenge. Stiles narrowed his eyes, feeling something sour bubbling up low in his chest.

"You said you didn't know anything," he said, voice quiet. Anger began to feed into his lungs, and he continued, "You said you and Meredith weren't getting any whispers. No messages, no signs, nothing."

"I never said that," replied Lydia coolly. She leaned against one of the cement pillars, eyes locked on Stiles. "I just said it wasn't an immediate death situation. He's still alive. At least, as far as Meredith knows. I'm confident he's not dead, either. I didn't lie to you, Stiles, if that's what you're mad about. You needed to wake up."

As much as Stiles hated to admit it, she was right. So he swallowed his retort, and leaned back against the countertop.

"Fine," he relented. "So what are we going to do about it? We have a plan, right?"

Scott stepped forward cautiously, as if Stiles were the wild animal that were about to flee.

"Stiles," he stated.

"I mean as you can see, I'm completely fine. Just a little cold and battered, no big deal," he rushed on, trying to remain oblivious. "Let's just go home, I'll get packed, and we'll be off. I'll tell my dad we're going camping, that'll work. It's the middle of summer, so he'll be fine with it. It's not like we'll be gone for long, so–"

"Stiles, you're not going," Scott interrupted. He was staring right at Stiles, and the tone of his voice left no room for arguments.

Stiles liked to argue though.

"What?" he sputtered. Then he laughed. "Scott, this is totally the wrong time to joke. Seriously, have some tact."

"I'm not joking, Stiles. You're staying here."

Stiles stared. "You – you can't be serious," he said. "Guys?"

He looked around at the Pack, but they all purposefully avoided his gaze. Only Scott and Lydia looked at him, and they both had that determined stance that put a sinking feeling in his chest.

"We already have the plan. Isaac, Lydia, and Kira are coming with me. You, Malia, and Danny are staying here," Scott stated. His voice was matter-of-fact, so unlike how it usually was when he attempted to give a game plan.

It was then Stiles knew that he didn't have the full story.

"Scott," he started, "how long has Derek been missing?"

Lydia spoke up, still watching Stiles carefully. "He's been gone a week, since the last Pack meeting. We've known he's in Mexico for three days, now."

Stiles' brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The bomb in his chest wanted to go off, but instead it just fizzed out, and his heart stopped beating. His throat went dry.

Stiles licked his lips, once, and when he spoke, his voice carried with it a dangerous threat.

"Scott. Can I speak to you for a minute?"

Scott hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded. Stiles turned, and stalked for the door that led out onto the balcony.

The summer night air was cooler than most, a gentle breeze washing over the tall buildings this side of Beacon Hills. The half-moon hanging above the town spread a blanket of blue light over the scene, and the quiet rumbles of lone cars on the roads filled the air. Smoke and fire drifted in the wind, the scent of gasoline like ash in Stiles' nose. The world hit his skin, and the quiet peace of pre-dawn fought against the storm raging in his chest.

The moment Scott closed the door, Stiles rounded on him.

"What the hell, man?" he shouted, brandishing a finger out at his friend. "Why didn't you tell me any of this sooner?"

Scott must've been waiting to unleash as well, because he yelled back, "Because I knew you'd react like this!"

"Like what? _This_?" Stiles asked, incredulous. "I'm only angry because you freaking _lied_ to me!"

"None of us were lying to you, Stiles!"

"But you didn't tell me the truth, either!"

"We never told you, because we didn't think you'd care!"

Stiles fell back. "That," he said, "is definitely a lie. You all were _scared_ to tell me. I saw all of you in there." He brandished a finger at the window. "Why?" he asked again.

"Because if you knew Derek was in trouble, we knew you'd freak out and panic!"

"Why the hell would I panic?" he cried.

"Because that's how Derek acted when you were possessed!" Scott roared, getting in Stiles' face.

Stiles fell silent. "What?" he asked. "Derek didn't panic over me."

Scott looked away, glaring over the skyline of Beacon Hills. "He nearly ripped out Allison's dad's throat, multiple times."

Stiles heard the waver in Scott's voice when he'd mentioned Allison.

He countered, "Well, yeah, if I'd had claws, I'd probably do the same."

"He was really worried about you."

"Yeah, I'd be pretty freaking worried as well if my Pack were in trouble!" Stiles shouted. "I don't know what you're getting at, Scott, but it has nothing to do with the fact that Derek is currently _missing_!"

"Derek wasn't your Alpha!"

Stiles thought back to the conversation he'd had with Peter, but dismissed it. "Yeah, but we're _Packmates_, Scott. Derek's part of your Pack. You know that. _That's why we're going to find him_."

"You're staying here, Stiles."

"Why?" Stiles yelled, spreading his arms out.

"Because you're too worried about this!"

"Of course I'm worried about him, asshole, he's part of our goddamn Pack!" Stiles exploded.

All the rage in his chest burning like a furnace suddenly went out with that last exclamation, leaving Stiles with an empty shell beneath his ribs. He breathed heavily, and could just barely feel the beating of his heart.

"I have a right to be worried about him, Scott," Stiles breathed. "I'm not letting another one of my Packmates get killed. Not again."

Scott was staring at him, guilt and sadness and grim determination reflecting in his eyes.

"Stiles…" he began, but then trailed off, as if he couldn't find the words to say.

Stiles' shoulders slumped. There wasn't really anything to say. He sat down on the cement window ledge in defeat.

"God, Allison was right," he groaned under his breath, burying his face in his hands.

"Allison?" Scott suddenly perked up. "What about Allison?"

Stiles went tense for a moment, but then decided it wasn't worth keeping secrets.

"My dream was about Allison," he explained, raising his head and resting it on the backs of his hands. He peered up at Scott, exhaustion running through his veins. "I mean it was about the Nemeton as well, sort of, but mostly about Allison."

"What, so she was there?"

"Sort of," Stiles murmured. "I think it was her ghost or something. It was like my dreams with the Nogitsune. You know, spirits and things."

Scott let out a breath. He sat down next to Stiles, and they both turned to face the view of the skyline. They were silent for a few moments, both not saying anything, letting the anger pass before Stiles opened the next file to address.

After a few moments, he finally continued.

"She said I was dying."

"What?" Scott's head snapped around faster than even his werewolf reflexes could've excused. Stiles did not envy the whiplash that would've caused a human like himself.

He continued to look straight ahead as he said, "Well, I don't think it's immediate. But she said that my only solution might be to get the Bite."

"What?" Scott repeated, a pitch higher than the first one.

"I'm not really sure," Stiles explained. "I was looking in a mirror, and my eyes were killer-Beta blue " –wow, that sounded like a makeup color name– "and then they turned into Alpha red. Then she shot an arrow at me, and I woke up."

Scott turned to face Stiles fully at that point. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yep," Stiles sounded, popping the 'p'. "She also told me to talk to Deaton."

"Oh," Scott replied, then sat back against the window.

It said something about their lives that he was taking a threat to Stiles' life relatively calmly. Stiles wondered absently if this was how he'd taken the news of Derek. Probably, considering how often the man had left town before the Nogitsune.

But they'd changed that in the past six months. They'd started having weekly Pack meetings – sometimes biweekly – and they often came to Derek's loft and just… hung out. Derek offered the help he could with their homework – he'd gotten his GED in New York – and they all watched movies and played games sometimes. Stiles cooked when he could; he'd learned a few things to keep his dad healthy, and when he didn't, then Kira tried, usually failed, and had Stiles cook for her anyway.

It all felt like… moving on.

Stiles was honestly surprised that he'd been away from Derek's loft the entire week, all things considering. Or, well, it wasn't all that surprising, with him avoiding… Derek…

Scott thankfully broke Stiles' train of thought by asking, "Are you sure she didn't say anything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said in your dream that you got Alpha eyes, or whatever. That's not possible. I mean, unless you were to kill me, or some other Alpha."

"Or if I end up being a True Alpha, like you," Stiles shot back just as easily.

"Yeah, I don't think so," said Scott, lying back against the glass.

Stiles turned on Scott, indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, I just… I don't think you would be able to be part of my Pack if you were a True Alpha."

"You were once part of Derek's Pack."

"No," said Scott, shaking his head as he looked at Stiles. "I was just working with him to take down Gerard, remember?"

"That's not how Derek took it."

"Yeah, that was kind of the point," Scott reiterated.

"Peter said there was a bond and everything. For both of us. I'm pretty sure we were part of his Pack, dude. Besides, there can be more than one Alpha in a Pack. We've seen that."

Scott snorted. "We also know how well that worked out."

Stiles shrugged. "It seemed to work pretty well, actually. They almost won."

"Until they didn't."

"Because we were better."

"That's right, dude," affirmed Scott. Without looking, they both bumped fists, and continued to watch the horizon.

They worked the way only best friends did, argument already forgotten, or at least put to the back of their minds. After a few more thoughtless moments, however, Scott spoke up again.

"Did she say anything else?"

Stiles thought about it, and decided to leave out the weird confession Allison had given him alongside the death sentence. Not when they were trying to lower the tension.

"Yeah," he finally answered, frowning. "We talked about how death looked good on her, and how the afterlife was the universe's best-kept beauty secret."

Scott laughed, an easy sound from his throat. "Let's not tell Lydia about it. We need her."

Stiles grinned. "Yeah, we really do."

"How did she look?"

Again, Stiles paused, thinking back to his vision of Allison. "She looked good, man. She looked…"

He stopped, thinking back to that dark room in the broken school. He thought about the way Allison had smiled, and laughed. And he thought about the grim determination she held when she'd aimed her bow. The same determination that Scott now brought with him like a charm in his pocket.

"Alive."

Scott breathed out a sigh, and when Stiles looked over, he saw the faint glimmer of tears in his friend's eyes.

"Hey," he said, reaching out for Scott's hand. "We've got this."

Scott took it, and squeezed Stiles' hand in his grip. "Yeah," he replied, swallowing. "Yeah, we do."

They both turned back to the balcony one final time, watching as the sky began to turn pink.

"You're plan kind of sucks, Scott," Stiles finally said, breaking the silence.

Scott's eyebrows rose, just slightly. "How so?" he asked, sounding almost amused.

"You don't have a human. What if there's mountain ash or other supernatural-related traps?"

"We've got Lydia," Scott reminded him.

"So? There are things that we don't know of that can probably stop Banshees. You need a human, and you aren't taking Danny, because as much as we like Danny, he has no idea how to fight or defend himself with the rest of the Pack. He has the least field experience out of all of us."

Now Scott was smiling fully. "That's why we're taking someone with more field experience."

"You mean me, right?"

"No, Stiles, you're not coming."

"Scott, come on–"

Scott held up a hand, a move so sudden that it shocked Stiles into silence. "The rest of the Pack is here," he said simply, standing up and brushing off his pants.

"Oh my god, stop being so dramatic," Stiles grumbled. "You've been watching too many cop shows."

Scott only shook his head, heading for the door.

Stiles followed, and called after him, "Who else is coming? The entire Pack is already… here…"

Stiles stopped where he stood, staring at Ms. McCall and his father.

Quickly, he grabbed Scott's shoulder and hissed, "You called my dad?"

"And my mom," Scott said, nodding. "They're Pack. We promised we'd stop lying to them, remember?"

Stiles' dad stepped forward, arms crossed. "That's right. Now what's this I hear about you going to Mexico?"

"Stiles isn't going," Scott said, at the same time that Stiles replied, "Derek's missing."

The Sheriff cocked a brow and glanced back at Melissa. She nodded to him, crossing her arms. "So we're finally going to find the kid?"

For the second time in the same night, Stiles felt his insides turn to ice. "What?" he asked, staring at his father. His chest felt like a knife was through it, twisting slow torture into his bones. "You knew?"

"Yeah, I did," the man answered. "I figured since you were avoiding talking about Derek in general that you wouldn't want to know."

"What – That, that's bullshit!" Stiles spluttered, starting forward. Scott placed an arm across his chest before he could take more than a couple steps, forcing him back. Stiles let loose a snarl, loud enough that the entire room stared.

Lydia spoke up first. "You've been avoiding Derek, Stiles? Why?" When Stiles looked at her, it looked as if she were smug about something.

Stiles glowered at her. "That doesn't matter right now. You don't have a human going with you."

"You don't have an adult either," Melissa added, eying her son in particular.

"Yeah, what she said," continued Stiles, gesturing loosely at the woman. "You need me."

Lydia folded her arms defiantly. "Or we just need an adult human. Two birds with one stone."

"Who?" Stiles shot back. "Neither of you," he pointed at the parents in turn, "can take an indefinite number of days off work, and Peter–" Stiles paused, and then shook his head "–I don't know why I mentioned Peter. He's not human. Or responsible."

"I resent that," Peter said from where he perched on the staircase.

Melissa looked around suddenly, as if realizing they were missing someone. "Where's Chris? Shouldn't he be here?"

Isaac held up a hand, looking around hesitantly before answering, "Um… Chris said he didn't want to… um… he wasn't available. For this. To find Derek, I mean."

Stiles nodded, glancing at Scott. His friend had the same understanding in his eyes. Chris wouldn't want to help the Pack, no matter how much Scott and Isaac counted him as one of them. It was too painful.

Lydia was still smug, though, when Stiles turned his questioning gaze on her.

"We've already got that covered," she answered, glancing at the Sheriff.

"Oh, right!" the man said, jumping a little. "He should be here by now…"

"Who should be here?" Stiles asked, confused.

As if on cue, hurried footsteps began to echo in the hall, followed by a young man rushing into the room.

"Sorry I'm late, I was trying to get dressed and–"

Deputy Parrish paused in the doorway when the Pack turned their ten pairs of eyes on him.

"Amateur," Lydia sniffed, tapping her heeled boots impatiently.

"Wow," Parrish breathed, a low whistle sounding from his lips. "There are a lot more kids than I was expecting."

Stiles snapped out of his shock, and exclaimed, "What the hell is he doing here?"

"Yeah, what's he doing here?" Malia asked, looking between Stiles and the Deputy, just as confused. Danny and Isaac were surprised as well, if their raised eyebrows were anything to go by.

"I called him here," the Sheriff explained, giving the Deputy a nod. "After Lydia and Scott told me they needed an escort."

"To… Mexico, right?" Parrish clarified, still looking around worriedly. His gaze fell on Peter lurking on the stairs, and he swallowed, before drawing himself up straighter.

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it again to say, "Are you sure he's… qualified to…"

"To take care of a bunch of werewolves on a road trip?" Parrish asked, stepping in. He shrugged, nodding. "Yeah, I think I can handle it."

"What – you – he knows?" Stiles spluttered, looking to Scott.

"I told him," his dad answered. "After the fight with the Oni, in which Parrish was nearly _killed_, I kind of had to explain what was going on. Scott understands."

Stiles looked around at the Pack, an ugly feeling building in his chest. "Well," he stated dully. "Does anyone else have any secrets they're keeping from me?"

Danny raised a hand. "I'm still dating Ethan," he said, looking around. "I call him once a week. He's in Chicago right now, applying at the Art Institute."

"Well congratulations to Ethan," Stiles snapped.

"Stiles," Scott started, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "You can't come. We asked your dad, and he said–"

"Definitely not," the Sheriff interrupted.

Stiles protested, "But Dad–"

"No, Stiles," the man interrupted. "If you won't listen to your Alpha, listen to me. You are not going to Mexico."

"But–"

"You promised me, Stiles."

"And you promised me that we wouldn't lie anymore," Stiles shot back. "Why didn't you tell me about Derek?"

"I tried," the Sheriff answered. "You were avoiding the subject."

Stiles opened his mouth, closed it again, and couldn't find any words to say. Lydia was still looking at him, calculating.

Scott put a hand on his shoulder. "Stiles, stay here. It's not just about Derek. You're sleepwalking again. We can't deal with that in Mexico."

He knew when he'd been beat. Even if he'd been beat three days ago.

"Fine," he relented, taking a breath. "I need to talk to Deaton anyway."

"Why do you need to talk to Deaton?" asked the Sheriff, shifting gears immediately.

"Sleepwalking, Dad. He's the 'expert'." Stiles even put up air-quotes around the word 'expert'.

What? He went all out when he was irritated.

Parrish clapped his hands, drawing the attention of the entire Pack. "Well, this seems like a good setup. When do we leave?"

Lydia straightened, and just her presence alone was enough to end the conversation. With a sweeping eye over the group, her eyes landed on the Sheriff.

He nodded.

Lydia took it, and answered, "Immediately."

* * *

**A/N:** Apologies for the dialogue-driven chapter; I usually have more description, but there wasn't much scene-painting for me to do; you all know what Derek's loft looks like. Besides, I've been watching a lot of NCIS, so I'm a little out of it. Such confusing plot lines… Literally, I am watching it right now, and I am so confused. This man is impersonating Tony? What?

**Next Chapter**: The Pack meets another companion in Mexico, while Stiles talks to Deaton and avoids his problems.


End file.
